


Everything But the House Keys

by perceived_nobility



Series: Impossible Object 'Verse [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7989568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perceived_nobility/pseuds/perceived_nobility
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nice officer calls him "son," which might be nice if he was less pissed. As it is, it feels like, really, the least the nice officer could have done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything But the House Keys

Wallet contents at time of theft:

  
Fourteen dollars in bills and $1.64 in change, 14 pennies. The rest quarters, and he was going to do laundry when he got home but unless the couch coughs up a buck and a half. Well. He can wash some stuff in the tub. It’ll do. Monthly youth transit card with 3 days left on it. Student ID for National High School, ID number 0877654; his hair’s long in the picture and the red background makes him look angry under the sunburn. Miscellaneous receipts. MasterLock key in with the change, gold, as for a house or a heavy padlock. Fuck if he’s going to report what that opens. State ID card, brand new, with a brand new name and a slightly used face on it, his favorite ID, honestly screw everything else in the stupid wallet, he just wants his ID back. Sometimes he’d lie in bed when the world felt big and sharp and he’d run his fingers over the crisp edges of the card and just stare at it. It was perfect, do you hear me, Officer? Perfect. Replacement fees are bullshit, you can print an ID in thirty seconds with a fancy printer, they’ve got one at school. It can even do watermarks. His friend—well, acquaintance—Condo can do a state ID in like, 24 hours. Fuck if he’s telling the officer that either but it doesn’t change the fact that replacement fees are highway fucking robbery and this cop is not, repeat, not taking him seriously right now.

  
Was there anything else in the wallet.

  
Food stamps, folded in the cash pocket. No he doesn’t remember how much. Clipped Aldi coupons. Paperclips, probably. Yes, paperclips. Also known as his backup keys but he keeps his mouth shut and tries to say sir without it sounding like a cussword.

  
Was there anything else in the pocket that the wallet was located in that was also stolen.

  
No, Officer. Nothing to report.

  
His knife. Bought new off the Internet last month, shiny, a Leatherman with two screwdriver attachments and no nail file. What’s with Swiss Army knives anyway? When are you gonna need a nail file so bad you have to pull out your pocket knife? And a bottle opener. Stupid. Leatherman’s got the right idea about knives: tools and more tools, like three blades and screwdrivers like he said, and maybe a can opener but that makes sense, you’re way more likely to need to open a can than a bottle of fucking wine with your utility knife. On the list of things you take with you to places utility knife companies should expect you to go, canned stuff is like, number six. Definitely top ten. Wine is like, not even on the list. It’s on a completely different list called Things You Don’t Bring Places You’d Need Your Utility Knife.

Anything else?

  
He doesn’t mention the Chicago Municipal Library card: he’s got an image to maintain. Doesn’t mention the sketches of his friend Rob and Rob’s dog Rob Jr that he tucked in a credit card pocket. They’re dumb anyway, drawn on napkins and magazine margins in blotchy ballpoint. Oh yeah—Medicaid card, definitely his Medicaid card. Shit, his med card was in there, he’s got a shot in a week, shit.

  
His hand is in the pocket the wallet was stolen from, now. It’s alternately clenched into a fist and out flat, kneading at the muscle of his thigh. He was gonna get a shot in this thigh. He knows he’s gonna feel like shit starting in about four days—he feels like shit now, but it’s a different kind of shit, an immediate kind of shit that comes from being caught between Recent Shittiness and Impending Compound Shittiness.

  
There’s a cup of water in the hand that used to be in the pocket the wallet was stolen from. He sips at it a little, because the sooner it’s gone the sooner he can get his hand back in there. It’s stuff like this—drinking water, answering questions, getting distracted—that led to his wallet getting stolen in the first place.

  
Are you sure, son? Nothing else to report?

  
At the end of the interview, he’s got a business card to slip into the pocket the wallet was stolen from. He’d put it in his wallet but—well. It should be obvious, shouldn’t it. It’s going to get bent and beat up. Maybe he won’t be able to read the nice officer’s name on it.  
He throws it in a garbage can a few blocks from the station. Stuffs his empty hand back in his empty pocket and keeps walking.


End file.
